


It is what it is

by the1895 (artistique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, alternative ending, johnlock kiss, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:50:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artistique/pseuds/the1895
Summary: An alternative ending of season's 4 2nd episode.





	It is what it is

John was broken. His heart felt heavy on his chest and his breathing was getting heavier. He thought he was losing his mind.

Why? Why did he have to suffer so much? What did he do to deserve such severe pain?

Loss. He had experienced it in the past. Being a soldier in Afghanistan he had witnessed death. Quite a lot for a lifetime as he had himself confessed.

Then it was Sherlock. When John saw him jumping from that roof he felt like his world had stopped. The world was falling into a slow motion. He couldn’t listen the beating heart of London. His gaze fixed on the man he loved and adored. 2 years of pain and therapy. Tears and sleepless nights. The nightmares were getting worse. A dark thought was crossing his mind every time he woke up - well more accurately getting up from bed since he couldn’t really sleep most of the nights.

He even moved out of Baker Street. The thought of living in the flat he was once sharing with him, was making it harder.  
  
All of this until he met her. Mary Mortsan. The woman, he thought, could change his life and give him a reason to live again. And it did. For a little while. Mary helped him. He was at the lowest he’d ever been and she was there for him. He thought that he could have a future with her, start fresh, smile and look positively at life again.

Until he returned.

Sherlock just showed up, out of the blue. Back from the dead. John was furious. How dare he march into the restaurant he and Mary were dining, and expect John to welcome him into his life again?

So he punched him.

Every word coming out of Sherlock’s mouth was a red flag in John’s mind. How could he hide from him the fact that he was alive? And on top of it all, there were other people who knew about Sherlock’s plan, but John didn’t. He was supposed to be his best friend! And he couldn’t trust him to confide his secret? That made John angry, but most importantly…sad.

John was mourning. 2 years of his life convinced that Sherlock was long gone.

And here he was again. John letting the tears run down his cheek and on his wife’s bleeding, dead body.

Mary was dead. His wife, the mother of his child, lying cold dead, in the bloody aquarium.

The sounds of his grieving filling the room, while everyone else was frozen; trying to process what had just happened. Sympathy was written on everyone’s face, in the face of a broken John standing before their eyes.

John hated being looked upon with pity, but right then he didn’t care. He just lost his wife. For all he knew, they could be laughing at him and he could care less.

“John” Sherlock’s voice boomed in the room. He was cautious, careful.

John lifted his gaze to meet his eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” He spat angrily. Sherlock shifted awkwardly, his eyes saddening from the tone of John’s voice. But John didn’t even blink at Sherlock’s emotion. “You promised. You made a vow. To keep her safe.” His voice breaking at the last words.

The look on Sherlock’s face was unreadable. It was like a mixture of all emotions had exploded leaving him completely empty.

That was the last day John spoke to Sherlock since the outburst in the hospital.

* * *

 

It had been almost a month or two, John had lost track of time really. He was getting up from bed, put the kettle on to make tea, then pouring the cold liquid to the sink since he was forgeting to drink it, too consumed in his thought. Going to work mechanically and then during lunch break, sneaking into his therapist’s office for “a nice chat” as she had delicately described their sessions. 

 And every time he was sitting on that damn therapist chair, she was there. Mary. Or at least the version of Mary he had on his mind. His subconscious playing games with him. 

“Have you talked to him?” The steady voice of his therapist echoed in the silent room. 

John tore his gaze from behind of her and refocused his look on hers instead.

“Who?” John asked playing dumb. He knew damn well who she was referring to, though he hoped he didn’t. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” She smiled at him, staring him patiently. 

“No.” He quickly responded, coughing awkwardly and hoping she would drop it.

“Why?” She pressed the matter and John’s heart took a leap. 

“I’ve been busy.” The speed of his words were like a flash, he didn’t even have time to process what he said. 

She chuckled. Scribbling a few words down her paper she gave him a smile. “See you on Friday, John.” 

* * *

 

Standing outside the old too familiar building of Baker Street made him feel a mixture of emotions. Anxious because he hadn’t been there for such a long time. Angry because he let the time slip right through his fingertips. Eager to be back in the flat. Nervous to have to face Sherlock after all this time. 

Before he even realised it, he was standing on the doorway; one hand raised to knock on the door. 

After a few seconds, the door creaked open, revealing a very tired looking Sherlock. His once clean smoothed face had now scruff on it, his perfect luscious curls were sticking all over the place and the glim of his green eyes was now replaced with vacancy. 

What happened to Sherlock Holmes that he used to know? 

John was staring at him without realising it. Until Sherlock offered him a small smile, inviting him in. John had to double check he heard right. Sherlock being polite and actually inviting people in instead of leaving the door open and ignoring them? 

Sherlock almost limped to this chair, making himself comfortable. 

John stood there, in the middle of the room, taking in his surroundings. The flat hadn’t changed dramatically. The skull was still in place, the wallpaper still the same, and his chair was there, across Sherlock’s. It felt like home again.

Sherlock was looking at him carefully, without uttering a word. When their eyes met, Sherlock shifted his gaze, taking a sip of his tea. 

He almost looked so vulnerable and so lost for words suddenly. 

John coughed awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

“So how ’re you coping?” John asked, his eyes scanning up and down his sitting figure.

“Fine.” He simply said, taking another sip. His hands shaking a bit while taking the saucer to put the cup on. 

There were a few minutes of silence before Sherlock spoke again. 

“Are you ok?” His eyes soft and caring. 

And that’s when John broke down.

“No, I’m not ok.” He shifted his gaze behind Sherlock. “I’m not ok, Sherlock. I cheated on Mary. I cheated on her with a girl I met on the bus. It was only texting but the thing is… I wanted more. I’m not the person everyone thinks I am. But I want to be.” He was full on crying, tears blurring his vision.

Sherlock had gotten up from his seat, approaching John, wrapping his arms tenderly around John’s vulnerable frame. John was sobbing, his head resting on Sherlock’s chest. 

“It’s ok.” Sherlock whispered comfortingly.

“It’s not ok.” John argued through cries. 

“It’s not ok.” Sherlock repeated. “But it is what it is.” He squeezed John, making him aware of his presence. 

They remained there, John wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, in the middle of their flat, and for a little while, this moment there, he felt secure.

* * *

 

John was sitting on his chair again. Sherlock was fumbling in the kitchen making some tea. John was blankly staring at the empty seat opposite him. Inside him a war was taking place. What should he do? 

“Here is your tea, John. There was no milk in the fridge. Mrs Hudson must have forgotten to buy some from the store.” Sherlock said giving him an apologetic smile and handing him the mug. John wished the mug would contain something with alcohol but he guessed tea would do. 

Sherlock sat opposite him, crossing his legs, watching him carefully. 

The silence was so heavy upon them, that you could hear a pin drop. 

“Look, John, I’m-” Sherlock started to break the silence before John shut him up. 

“I love you.” John blurted out, looking dead on Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was starring at him like John had grew two heads. His mouth opening but no sound coming from inside. 

“Not as just a friend, obviously. It took me a while to realise whether what I was feeling for you was an impulse to punch you in the face or wrap my arms around you and never let go. I realised it was both.” John chuckled at the last part. 

“When did you…” Sherlock tried to ask but once again he was interrupted by John. 

“When you died. Well, most precisely when you faked your death. The loss of you was unbearing. I couldn’t even stand living at the flat anymore. Not alone. Not without you.” His arms resting on the chair’s arms, feeling a rush of adrenaline popping in his veins and his mouth was working like a machine not stopping at the next words. 

“What about Mary?” Sherlock had his hands clasped together under his chin. He was thinking. 

“Mary was great. Mary helped me. But not with just the grief of you. She helped me trying to get over you. In the beginning, she didn’t realise that. Not until one night after two bottles of wine, that I confessed everything to her.” John smiled at the memory of that night. 

“What did she say?” 

“That it took me too long to confess it. She didn’t think I could last that long.” John and Sherlock stared at each other before breaking down laughing. 

After the laughter had died down, Sherlock spoke again. 

“I love you too, John.” Sherlock blurted out, his eyes looking straight into John’s. 

John blushed, looking away, trying to hide it. 

“It was such an absurd feeling, I almost thought I was ill. I never believed that I could experience anything like this, nor did I had for that matter.” Sherlock’s tone matched the one he had every time he was explaining the solving of a case. His case. 

“Why did you never tell me?” John asked curious of the love confession Sherlock was sharing with him, about him.

“First of all, I could not even explain it to myself. I was researching the symptoms of my case. Searching online resources and all the encyclopedias. Until one day, Molly Hooper gave me the solution.” He smiled fondly at the memory. 

Molly in her lab coat, explaining to a naive Sherlock the meaning of love. His face had an “oh” expression written all over it and he never had any intention to interrupt her. He was fascinated by her. 

“And then, it was your constant declaration of not being "gay”. Your girlfriends parading in the flat and then when I finally returned from my 2 year exile, you had already moved on, trying to have a future with another woman.“ Sherlock’s eyes saddened a bit at the thought that he had lost his chance. "I thought I had lost my chance.” 

"I never knew you were gay. You've been flirting with that woman. The woman. Irene Adler. I thought you liked her." John said a pang of jealousy hitting him.

"As always John, you see but do not observe." Sherlock stated. "I never showed any romantic interest towards her. Yes, I was fascinated by her but because of her mind and the ability of being a significant oponent. Nothing more. I never replied to her courting calls." He finished. 

John was quite. He tried to process everything Sherlock was saying. His eyes looking blankly in front of him. 

“John” Sherlock tried to stand up, it was getting quite hard after John had thrown a tantrum on him, punching him and trying to remain off the hook with drugs after the severe addiction, was hard. 

John rushed at his side, helping him to get on his feet. His heart ached at the broken man in front of him. 

“Thank you, John.” He gave him a tight lip smile. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry for everything I did. For accusing you for Mary’s death, abandoning and beating the shit out of you when you needed me the most. I’m trully sorry.” His voice cracked and he felt hot tears making their way to his puffy eyes. 

John had punched Sherlock. At the hospital. When he doubted him. When all of his anger came rushing through his veins and clouding his mind. He thought that punching him would make him forget and erase his feelings for Sherlock. But his anger towards Sherlock was not about Mary's death. It was about his reckless behaviour. He was drugged out of mind when he saw him that day. He had been a mess. He could've killed himself if he had overdosed. John would have lost him forever. 

Sherlock lowered his head facing him. He reached John’s cheek where the tear had slipped leaving a trace, wiping it away with his thumb. The place where his finger made contact with his cheek leaving a burning sensation to John. The touch was tender and delicate. 

“It’s ok.” He whispered with his husky, low voice, that sent chills running up and down John’s spine. 

John remained silent. His face hanging low staring at the floor, not daring to meet Sherlock’s gaze. 

Sherlock lifted John’s chin with his thumb making him look at him. 

“I love you, John. That’s all that matters.” 

“I love you too.” The moment the words left John’s lips, Sherlock leaned over and touched his lips on John’s. Locking into a tender kiss, radiating so many emotions that were held bottled up for so long. 

They pulled apart, Sherlock stroking John’s hair softly. 

“I’m afraid, Sherlock.” John’s voice trembled. His eyes wide looking up at Sherlock. He looked so young. 

Sherlock chuckled, taking John’s hands in his; kissing softly at the back of his hands. 

“Don’t be afraid, John. It is what it is.” 

And at the very moment, John felt happy. 

He felt like home.

 


End file.
